


The gun still rattles

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [17]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Days, Dark, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: In a continuation of themes left in Wait for tomorrow and Come to me now and rest your head, Bucky grapples with his demons yet again.





	The gun still rattles

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure why I originally created this Bucky + Laura Barton friendship thing, but now I’m running with it. 
> 
> This is super dark! So sorry about that. Trigger warnings are in the tags.
> 
> This is Powers/No Powers; you know the drill.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr. @Builder051

 

 

 

 

Steve’s hand comes down on the back of Bucky’s head, stroking through his hair and down his neck to his tense shoulder blades. 

 

“Hey.  Call me if you need me, ok?”  He kisses Bucky’s crown and traces a little pattern of affection on his back. 

 

“Hm.”  Bucky looks down at the magazine on the table in front of him.  Then at his untouched cup of coffee.  He should drink some, just a sip.  Steve made it for him.  He should show a little gratitude. 

 

“Or I could stay home.  Use a sick day,” Steve offers. 

 

Bucky shakes his head.  The motion brings with it twinges of pain and vertigo, even though he’s sitting down.  “Go.”

 

“If you’re not feeling good—”

 

“Just…go to work,” Bucky sighs.  “I’m…”  He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence with _ok_ because he’s just so clearly not.  “I’ll see you tonight.”

 

“Buck…”  Steve lets out a breath, probably covering up everything more he wants to say.  “You sure?” 

 

Bucky nods, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands.  He’ll wait till Steve’s gone.

 

Steve rubs Bucky’s shoulder again.  “Ok.  See you tonight.”  He grabs his work bag off the edge of the kitchen counter.  “But if you need anything.  Call me.”

 

The _yeah_ Bucky intends to say gets lost in his throat, so he just moves his face around into something that doesn’t quite resemble a smile. 

 

“Ok,” Steve murmurs again on his way out to the garage.

 

Once Bucky hears the door bang shut, he lets himself slump forward over the table.  Magazines and odd pieces of mail strewn over the surface make a poor pillow.  He squeezes his eyes shut, halfway hoping he’ll feel better, or at least differently, when he opens them.

 

But no.  The pressure of unshed tears behind his sinuses melds with what has to be a brewing migraine and pushes him further beneath the dark surface of despair. 

 

He’s just…so tired.  He feels sicker than he did the day he’d wandered back to Steve’s doorstep.  Over the intervening years, he’s not gotten better.  Any blips of progress along the way were nothing more than false positives.  Now he’s back to barely being able to think, to speak.  And all he wants to do is disappear.

 

He should call Steve.  He’s probably still in the driveway, not yet even revving up his bike.  He’d wrap Bucky up in his strong arms, tell him he’s proud of him.  Make him a piece of toast or dose him with Excedrin or something.  It would be comforting.  But it also won’t make him feel any better; in fact, he’ll feel worse. 

 

Steve’s already wasted so much taking care of him.  So much time off work.  So much money spent on food Bucky can’t digest and clothes that are too uncomfortable and medications that don’t help.  Steve’s brimming with love, and Bucky wishes he’d just go on and find someone else who could really appreciate it and maybe return the favor.  If he’d ever just move on.

 

Bucky feels like a black hole of depression and bad attitude, constantly stealing all the light out of Steve’s life.  He’s selfish, because for the most part, he likes it.  But it’s times like now when he can see the truth.  He’s only ever been a burden.  He wishes he’d died in the war.

 

He wishes he’d died last summer, that Steve hadn’t come home and murmured sweet words that made the gun fall from Bucky’s hand.  That’d been a mistake.  Because now the gun surely isn’t around anymore. 

 

And that’s a problem.  What other choices does he have?  Slitting his singular wrist doesn’t seem plausible.  He’s not sure there’s enough medication in the house to take him down.  If he tries and just ends up getting drowsy and vomiting everywhere, it’ll get him a one-way ticket to inpatient care and no chance of trying again.  Bucky feels sicker thinking about it. 

 

He curls his arm around his head, though it does nothing to stem the painful throb echoing through his skull.  The threat of tears is reverberating in building nausea. Bucky breathes slowly for a moment, but the tension doesn’t let up.  If anything, it worsens, crystalizing in the shoulder of his stump arm and the stiff vertebrae of his neck. 

 

Everything smells like dirty paper.  The inside of his mouth tastes stale and sour.  Bucky lifts his forehead an inch and lets it smack back down.  The impact is slightly muffled by the pages of _Smithsonian_ , but it still hurts.  He can’t do this anymore.  He can’t sit here and wallow.  But he can’t begin to consider going back to just living. What’d he done on his last day off?  It seems like years ago.  Trudging across to the couch and watching TV seems like an insurmountable effort.

 

Bucky’s phone chirps, letting him know a new e-mail message has landed.  He couldn’t be less interested, and he swats at the device, scooting it over the edge of the table and knocking it to the floor.  The resulting clatter makes him sigh in resignation all over again.  It’s another expensive thing Steve’s bought for him, thrown on the ground like it’s nothing.  And it’s supposed to be a lifeline. 

 

He should just call Steve.  He’ll check his messages as soon as he pulls up at work.  He’ll immediately know Bucky’s in crisis.  And he’ll come home.  It should be reassuring, but the prospect is mortifying.  Tearing Steve away from work yet again with his errant emotions is just…too much. 

 

Bucky leans back in his chair, fighting dizziness as he considers what the fuck he wants to do.  The answer is literally nothing.  He wants to cease to exist.  But that’s not going to happen, at least not in the window of time before Steve comes home. 

 

He looks down at his phone on the kitchen’s tile floor.  He has a support system.  Bucky knows well what he’s supposed to do.  He just…can’t.  Blood rushes to his head as he leans over his knees to retrieve the device.  He swallows the rising urge to gag and returns to draping his torso over the kitchen table. 

 

_You’re sick.  Just call him._   Bucky unlocks his phone and selects his contacts.  _A Steve_ is the first entry on the list.  His thumb hovers over Steve’s name.  _Just call him._

But he can’t.  He drags his thumb down the sparse list of names, not even looking to see where it lands.  His face is pressed sideways into an article on ancient coins, and a haze of moisture in his eyes almost obscures the phone’s screen into blurriness.  But the pad of his finger is resting on a name.  _Laura Barton_.  And on a whim of helplessness, he presses the call button.

 

He doesn’t even hold the device to his ear.  Bucky can hear the line ringing a foot or so away from his face. 

 

“Hey, Bucky.”  The voice is warm and cheerful and slightly echoey.  There’s something like static and quiet chattering in the background.  Bucky’s just astonished she picked up.

 

“Um,” he says, fumbling his phone onto speaker.

 

“I’m just dropping the little monsters off at school,” Laura says.  Overlapping complaints of _aw, geez, mom_ , sound from further away.  She must be using the Bluetooth feature in her car.  “What’re you up to?”

 

Bucky’s not sure he can answer.  “I, uh…I don’t…”

 

“Are you ok?”

 

The question’s easier, though digging up the word and speaking the answer is just as difficult.  He takes a deep breath before whispering, “No.”

 

“Ok,” Laura says.  Bucky can hear her murmuring away from the phone.  _Cooper, can you walk your sister to her classroom?_   Car doors open and shut with pops that make Bucky’s head hurt.  He wishes the sound and the pain could be accompanied by a paralyzing bullet.  And he’s washed in guilt because he knows the thought’s so wrong.

 

“What’s going on?” Laura asks. 

 

“I…I just…”  He lets out a frustrated sigh, cursing the anxiety that steals his words.

 

“I know words are hard sometimes, but I need you to try to tell me.”

 

“I…don’t feel good.”  That’s what is, really.  In his body and in his head, right down to the inner workings of his brain cells. 

 

“And Steve’s at work?” Laura guesses.

 

“Hm,” Bucky affirms

 

“Ok.  It’s ok to not feel good,” she soothes.  “Can you tell me more?  Do you need someone to take you to urgent care?”

 

“N-no…”

 

“What’re you feeling?  It’s ok.  Just…let me know.”

 

Bucky takes another breath.  He’s going to cry.  He can already feel the wetness pooling around his eyelids and the lump of emotion blocking his throat.  “My…my head.”

 

“Like a migraine?”  Laura’s seen him have them before.

 

“I…I don’t…”  Bucky shoves the words out before he can think about them.  “I want to die.”

 

“Ok, um…”  He hears Laura start the car.  “Where are you right now?”

 

“Home.”

 

“What room?  Are you in a safe place?”

 

“Kitchen table…”  The end of the word gets lost in an unexpected huffing sob.

 

“And you’re safe there?  Are you…are you hurting yourself right now?”  He can hear the cringe in Laura’s voice.

 

“No, I’m…that’s why…god, I’m fucking trapped.”  Bucky grits his teeth.  The more the sobs rise in his chest, the more nauseated he feels.

 

“You’re gonna be ok, alright, Bucky?” Laura says firmly.  “I’m coming.  But it’s gonna take me a little bit to get to you.  An hour, maybe.  Are you gonna be ok till then?”

 

He replies with shaky, sobbing sigh.

 

“I can call an ambulance.  If you need it, I can have somebody come and make sure you’re safe until I get there.”  She doesn’t ask why he isn’t calling Steve.  The prospect of not having to explain what he doesn’t quite understand himself is a small relief.

 

“No,” Bucky says again.  “I’m…ah, god.”  His head throbs, bringing forth another stabbing gust of guilt.

 

“Alright.  I’m gonna stay on the phone.  I’m getting on the highway right now.”

 

“Ok.”

 

Laura keeps talking, describing some of the scenery that flashes past her windows.  “Another McDonalds billboard, can you believe it?  They can’t seriously need that much advertising.” 

 

Then when he’s quiet for too long, she asks Bucky to talk to her.  He just has no idea what to say. 

 

“Whatever you want.  What do you see around you?” Laura suggests.

 

“Uh.  The, the uh, table,” Bucky stutters out.  “A bunch of mail.”

 

“You got your magazines?” Laura asks.  “They usually make you feel a little better.”

 

She’s right, but then again, Steve usually makes Bucky feel better too.  Today, though, he just feels horrible.  The periodical under his face just seems like another five dollars Steve shouldn’t’ve wasted on him.

 

“I can’t…I don’t…”  Tears absorb his voice and turn it into croaks, and his esophagus all but closes off in a rush of impending sickness.  “I’m gonna throw up.”

 

Bucky gags and heaves, but he’s too empty to bring anything up.

 

Laura’s ready to expertly talk him through it.  “It’s ok, breathe,” she reminds him.  “I’m almost at your exit.  Hang on for another ten minutes or so.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“I know you’re feeling really bad.  Just keep breathing through it…”

 

Bucky hears the car pull into the driveway before Laura announces that she’s arrived. 

 

“I’m gonna just let myself in, ok?” she says.  “Stay right where you are.”

 

The car door slams loudly, then the townhouse’s front latch clicks and hinges squeak as Laura enters.  Her footsteps hurry through the entryway and into the kitchen. “Hey, Bucky,” she whispers. 

 

“Hhhh,” Bucky exhales back.  He’s fighting the urge to retch and sob at the same time.

 

“Can I hug you?”

 

He nods and swallows thickly. 

 

“Alright.  You’re gonna be alright.”  Laura kneels beside Bucky’s chair and wraps her slender arms around him.  Compared to her steadiness, he realizes he’s trembling hard.

 

“God,” Bucky mutters. 

 

“I know you’re feeling really bad,” she whispers. 

 

Bucky just shoves down another gag.

 

“You’re not bringing anything up, are you?”  Laura’s such a mother; she’s certainly seen it all.  “Have you had anything to eat or drink yet?”

 

Bucky shakes his head into her shoulder.

 

“Taken anything?  Ibuprofen, or…?”

 

“No.”

 

“Alright.”  Laura pats Bucky on the back a few times.  “First thing is you’re gonna drink some water.”  She keeps her hand on his arm as long as she can as she takes Bucky’s cold coffee away and quickly fills a glass with tepid tap water. 

 

He accepts the cup in his violently trembling hand and takes a tiny sip. 

 

“Ok, good,” Laura encourages.  “You said earlier you head’s bothering you.  Maybe your stomach too?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky chokes. 

 

“If I give you a painkiller, you’re just gonna puke,” Laura explains patiently.  “You need to eat something.  But, do you maybe wanna get out of here first?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Do you think you’d feel better if we went somewhere else?”  Mentally speaking, she means.  “Just get out of the house for a while?”

 

“I…don’t know.”  Bucky swallows another sip of water.  “I don’t…really want anything.”

 

“Drink that, and we’ll go for a drive.  If you think you can sit in the car.”

 

Bucky knows she wants to change up his environment.  Get him somewhere relatively relaxing, but in public, and away from anything he could use to harm himself.  It’s the personification of loving kindness.  But deep down, it’s also a disappointment.

 

“It’s gonna be ok.”  Laura squeezes his shoulder again.

 

Half an hour later, they’re cruising down the highway, practically retracing the path Laura’d just travelled.  Bucky leans into the cool glass of the window.  If he closes his eyes, he feels carsick, so he stares out at the rolling grassy hills. 

 

Laura hums softly from the driver’s seat.  Bucky can’t stand the sound of the radio at the moment, and she gamely puts up with his unhappy silence all the way back to Paris.

 

They go through a Burger King drive-thru because Laura refuses to stop at McDonalds.  Bucky grumbles that he isn’t hungry, which is half because he’s nauseous and half because he isn’t above starving to death.  But Laura smiles and says, “Too bad.”

 

The takeout bag of greasy breakfast food smells simultaneously sickening and delicious, and Bucky keeps looking down at it in his lap as Laura steers the car to Sky Meadows State Park. 

 

“We’re going for a picnic, ok?”  Laura parks and tucks in the car’s sun shade. 

 

“Why’d we come all the way out here?”  Bucky’s knees are weak and shaky.  His whole body is, and even his ribcage feels oddly unstable.

 

“It’s nice out?”  Laura poses.  “And eventually we’ll have to pick up the kids.”

 

“We?” Bucky asks.

 

“Yeah, you’re stuck with me for a while.”  Laura smiles.  She takes the takeout bag from his hand and exchanges it for a pair of what have to be Clint’s sunglasses.  “Here.”

 

The throbbing behind his forehead softens by half a notch once the sun isn’t melting his eyeballs.

 

“Come on.  We’ll just go down the path a little ways.”  Laura takes his hand for a moment, giving it a comforting squeeze before letting go and leading the way to a trailhead. 

 

As Bucky follows her, he realizes he’s barely dressed.  A faded t-shirt and some of Steve’s old sweats, the set of clothes he normally wears for sleeping and not much else.  It’s a good thing he doesn’t sleep naked.  At least, not usually. 

 

The thought is funny and also heartbreaking.  It brings Steve back into the equation, and the pressure of tears jumps back into his throat.  Bucky’s whole face smarts with the heaviness, and his eyes prickle with threatening emotion.  A tiny snort of a sob escapes his lips.

 

“Hey, ok,” Laura murmurs, turning around and quickly snaking her arm over Bucky’s shoulders.  “Here’s good, don’t you think?”  She steps them maybe three yards off the trail and pops a squat on the slightly damp grass.  Bucky all but collapses beside her. 

 

The parking lot is still visible from where they’ve set up camp, and a few older people with Nordic walking poles give them odd looks as they head out on the path.  But Bucky can’t make himself care.

 

Laura doesn’t seem to care either, cheerily waving at the passersby and handing Bucky little pieces of hashbrown like he’s a baby bird.  “I know you have to be feeling better with food in your system,” she says, pulling a second serving of fried potatoes out of the bag and beginning to dole them out. 

 

Bucky shrugs.  Maybe a touch less ill, but still just…terrible. 

 

“You’re under no obligation to talk,” Laura says.  “But, if you want to…”

 

Bucky stays quiet.

 

“I know I’m taking you to therapy next week, so you can wait for it if you want.  Or…I’ll take you to the ER if that’s gonna help.”

 

“I just…I’m sorry.”  Bucky lets the piece of potato between his fingers fall to the dirt between his knees.

 

“Do not be sorry, ok?”  Laura drops her palm onto his elbow.  “I’m so happy that you called.  You’re doing an excellent job.”

 

“I didn’t mean to drag you into it…”

 

“Hey, you’re not dragging me anywhere.  I walked into this.  I’m here for you because I care about you.  I care about Steve.  You guys are family to us.”

 

Tears start dripping under the sunglasses without warning.  Bucky shoves them up with the flat of his greasy hand and presses against his eyelids.  “I…I hurt people.  I hurt Steve.”

 

“No, you don’t,” Laura insists. 

 

“I do,” Bucky sobs.  “He does everything.  Spends his…his time, and his money.  On helping me.  But I’m sick.”  He practically chokes on the word.  “I’m not getting better. I’m only…only getting worse.  I can’t look at him anymore.  ‘Cause he doesn’t know…”

 

“Bucky, you’ve gotten so much better,” Laura murmurs.  “You’re eating.  You’re talking.”

 

“Those shouldn’t be accomplishments!  I’m too broken.”  His voice hitches.  “I just…wanna go away.”  He brings his forehead down to his knees as the uncontrollable sobs start up. 

 

“Alright.  You’re getting hugged again,” Laura warns him before her arms close around him, the flat of her torso completely pressed against his side.

 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Bucky whispers through his tears.  “I’m so fucking tired.”

 

“It’s a bad day.”  Even Laura’s cheek is resting on his shoulder.  “It’s allowed to be a bad day.”

 

All Bucky can do is cry.  After a few minutes, it’s clear that’s what Laura’s doing too.

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.  “You don’t have to…”

 

“Yes, I do,” Laura whispers.  “Because it would fucking tear me apart to lose you.” 

 

He sighs as guilt mounts all over again, like giant Jenga tower about to topple, dropping piece after piece on his sore head.

 

“You are depressed,” Laura says.  “Depression moves in cycles.  You know that.  Bad days happen.  This happens.  But you’re gonna feel better.”

 

“It’s not worth it.”

 

“Well, it’s worth it to me.”

 

They sit there in the grass for hours.  Bucky stops crying long enough to start breathing again, but then thoughts start up and he can’t blink back another round of tears.

 

At one point a park ranger comes by and asks if everything is ok.  Laura peels herself an inch or so away from Bucky and says that everything’s fine.  That it’s just not a good day.  Somehow the idiot buys it, and they get to stay put for a while longer.

 

Finally Laura checks her watch and says, “Well, it’s almost two.  Gotta get the kids in half an hour.”  She pats Bucky’s back.  “You ready to go?”

 

He should be, since they’ve been sitting there since late morning.  It seems almost funny, and he lets out a tearful laugh as he asks, “Do I have a choice?”

 

Laura returns the chuckle.  “Not really.  Come on.”  She pulls Bucky to his feet and gathers up the Burger King bag of now-cold breakfast sandwiches.  “Do you want one of these?” she asks.

 

Bucky has no appetite, which is as good an indicator as any that he’s still decidedly unwell.  He shakes his head and solemnly follows Laura back to the car. 

 

“Well, the kids’ll get a bang-up snack today.”  She turns to look at Bucky over her shoulder.  “And we’ve got soccer this afternoon.  Just so you know what you’re in for.”

 

“Huh.” 

 

Bucky feels like something in between an uninvited substitute parent and an overgrown third child as he sits in the front seat while Laura maneuvers the car through the elementary school’s pick-up line. 

 

“Mom!” Leila shouts as soon as she opens the door to the backseat.  A still-damp painting of butterflies explodes into the front.  “Look!”

 

“Oh, that’s fabulous, sweetheart,” Laura praises.  She looks to be fighting a giggle as Bucky awkwardly holds the piece of art.

 

“Why’s Uncle Bucky with you?” Cooper asks, a bit more cautious than his sister.  And maybe smarter, too, Bucky thinks. 

 

“He’s spending the day with us,” Laura non-explains.  “Now, when we get home, you have 45 minutes to chill before we need to leave for soccer.  So I hope you know where your socks and shin guards are.  I do not feel like hosting a scavenger hunt.”

 

Once the car stops in the Bartons’ gravel driveway, the kids hop out, chasing each other. 

 

“And that’s why we have two,” Laura says.  “They entertain each other…until I have to step in as referee.”

 

“Hm.”  Bucky almost smiles.  He looks down at the painting still in his lap and shifts his thumb, which has picked up a light coating of blue water-based tempera. 

 

“Sorry,” Laura says.  She takes the picture.  “Come inside.”

 

Bucky spends 20 minutes washing his hands in the bathroom.  He tries to force his shallow breaths a little deeper and pointedly does not look at his reflection in the slightly spotted mirror. 

 

“Hey,” Laura knocks on the door, presumably to make sure he’s not drowning himself in the sink.  “You doing ok?”

 

Bucky quickly splashes his face with tepid water and fumbles for the hand towel.  “Uh.  I guess.”

 

Laura opens the door a crack.  “Want a snack?”

 

“Hm.  Not really.”

 

“You still don’t feel good, do you?”  She gives Bucky the sweetest of sympathetic expressions.

 

He does his best to return the look in a way that’s not a grimace.

 

“You’re welcome to lie down for a minute,” Laura offers.  “But we gotta run again pretty soon.”  She doesn’t explicitly say it, but it’s clear that the intent is to avoid leaving him home alone.

 

“’S ok,” Bucky says. 

 

“I’ll give you an Excedrin,” she tries again.  “You gotta eat something, though.”

 

“No, ‘s ok,” Bucky repeats.  He’s not sure if the sore throb in his sinuses is actually a headache or leftover tears or clotted up emotion or something else entirely.  His stomach’s still uneasy regardless.

 

He ends up leaning awkwardly against the kitchen counter while Laura fills water bottles and the kids go to town on the fast food breakfast leftovers.  Cooper keeps eyeing Bucky warily, as if he knows what’s up, but is afraid to say anything out loud.  But, he’s ten years old, so he probably does.  And is. 

 

Another spectacular thing to feel bad about. 

 

Laura rolls down the windows as they cruise the 15 minutes into town and pull off at the public park where youth soccer is already in full swing.  Bucky should’ve taken it as a hint that he’s not looking so good, but nausea doesn’t fully hit until his feet are on the ground.  He wraps his arm around his stomach as he stands up and follows Laura to a stretch of grass where other parents are milling around. 

 

The kids split and run their separate ways, joining groups roughly divided by age and gender.  “Did they grab their water bottles?” Laura asks, trying to track one child out of each eye. 

 

“I…don’t know,” Bucky replies, feeling hopelessly bad at everything. 

 

“I have the most forgetful children on the planet,” she mutters, heading back toward the car.  “I’ll be right back.”

 

He watches Laura hustle across the grass and unlock her sedan by remote control. 

 

She’s such a loving, caring mom.  Making sure the kids get exactly what they need.  It’s the same type of care she’s been doling out to Bucky all day.  And he can’t begin to deserve it. 

 

They’re not even related.  He’s her husband’s work buddy’s…what, exactly?  Boyfriend?  Significant other?  Another role he’s somehow landed by default, not because he’s earned it by merit.  Because he definitely hasn’t. 

 

Bucky’s breath ratchets back up to a million miles an hour.  His vision is getting blurry as vertigo takes over.  Sourness assaults his tongue as the sensation of free-fall starts in his stomach.  He bends over with his hand braced on his knee and tries to think about Steve, or anything but Steve, but his brain is suspended in painful limbo. 

 

“Oh, shit.  Bucky?”  Laura’s gentle hand slams down on his back a second before he starts retching. 

 

“Hey, alright,” she soothes.  Bucky feels his spine arch as he brings up a weak stream of bile and barely-digested breakfast.  He can feel sweat beading through the stubble on his upper lip and creeping down the back of his neck.

 

Laura sweeps his long hair back from his face and glances the backs of her knuckles along Bucky’s jaw.  “Remind me to take your temperature when we get home,” She murmurs.  Bucky makes a note to forget as soon as possible. 

 

He throws up again, then dry heaves a few times.  He can practically feel prying eyes staring at him from all sides.  He’s sick, he’s a mess, and now everybody knows. 

 

Laura’s pocket starts ringing loudly, and she one-handedly wrestles her phone out while continuing to comfort Bucky with the other. 

 

“Hey,” she says, and Bucky has a pretty good idea who’s on the other line.  “Yeah, he’s up here with me.  Taking the kids to soccer.”

 

Steve’s voice is staticky and muffled, but Bucky picks out the words _how’s he doing?_

Laura buries the phone’s microphone in her chest, whispering to Bucky, “Do you want to tell him, or do you want me to?”

 

“How…?” Bucky breathes.

 

“I might’ve texted him earlier.  Just so he doesn’t worry too much,” Laura says.  “Now, do you want to talk?”

 

“You can,” he croaks, blinking and letting round droplets of saltwater fall into the small puddle of sick.

 

“He just threw up,” Laura reports with utilitarian softness.

 

Bucky feels his face burn with embarrassment, and he reaches up blindly.  “I will,” he changes his mind.

 

His hands shake the moment the device is in his grasp.  He lets out a quivering breath once the phone is up to his ear. 

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve intones.  “You’re over in Paris?”

 

“Hm.  Yeah,” Bucky hiccups. 

 

“And you’re pretty sick.”  It’s not a question this time.

 

“Yeah, I…don’t feel good.”

 

“Aw, Buck,” Steve says.  “You’re not ok right now, are you?  I should’ve stayed with you, this morning, I—”

 

“No, it’s…” Bucky interrupts him.  He doesn’t finish the sentence because he’s not fine.  He just doesn’t want to hear Steve try to apologize.  “I’m not ok.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.  “I know.”

 

“Yeah.”  Bucky holds his breath as nausea re-awakens and threatens to spill his non-existent guts again. 

 

“D’you…can I come see you?” Steve asks tentatively. 

 

He doesn’t deserve it; he’s not sure he can stand the degree of care…  But Bucky feels himself whispering, “Yeah.  I…um.  Yeah.”

 

“Ok.  I’ll be there soon.”  Steve doesn’t gum up the connection by saying _love you_ before he hangs up.  It’s a good thing.  Bucky doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it.

 

He shakily gives the phone back to Laura and attempts to straighten up against the slopping sensation still roiling in his abdomen. 

 

“Am I supposed to guess who’s coming to dinner?” she asks, offering a wan smile and Leila’s floral-print water bottle.

 

“Naw, you already know,” Bucky rasps, accepting the drink. 

 

“And you’re ok with that?”

 

“I think so,” Bucky says.  “Yeah.”

 


End file.
